Pimples and Wrinkles and Moles, Oh My!

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Pimples, Wrinkles and Moles, Oh My!
by Bonnie Biv	November 25, 2:03 a.m.

Some months ago I dialed up one of Manicured Lawnville's premier dermatologists for an emergency medical procedure. The nurse on the phone named my growing problem a Something-ae Cyst-ae. I preferred to call it Pimple Spawned from the Depths of Hell (PSFDOH).

The miniature bump of evil had popped up on my chin two weeks earlier. No matter how many times I poked, prodded and pinched the damn thing, it only got worse. It was time to admit defeat.

I remembered that my most narcissistic cousin always visits the dermatologist for a quick shot of cortisone when a PSFDOH appeared. As pleasurable as that sounded, I was never compelled to follow her high-maintenance example—until my day of desperation.

You see, I would be making a prestigious presentation to the heads of a billion-bling corporation two days later. And the PSFDOH, if left alone, would inevitably distract from my genius. I would be spouting breakthrough concepts and flipping sleek slides, but the execs would only hear, “I am not an animal! I am a human being!” and stare queasily at the alien busting out of my face. (This irrational phobia was fueled by an old pal’s accusation that I won my career by being cute and drinking like a frat-boy. I have never recovered. Although, he had a point.)

I bashfully explained this momentous dilemma to Dr. Derm as he investigated my deformity. He withdrew from my face and stared at me impassively. As his snotty lesbian nurse busied herself around him he grunted, “I thought such successes were based on intelligence, not looks.” Yes well, that’s because you’re sheltered in this sickening industrial-wallpapered box with your bitter hags and your horribly disfigured clientele such as myself. My uncouth thought became the words, “Perhaps I’m insecure. Regardless, I would like the ‘cyst’ fixed, please.”

He jabbed me with the wee dose of cortisone. OY! But instead of releasing me to pay cash for my uninsured vanity, he added this special observation: “You have an awful lot of moles.” Wow. Flattery will get you everywhere, Doc. Actually, I think that is what happens when Vikings sail south and mate with everybody they can conquer. I am the product of centuries of forbidden lust and moles are my punishment. Moley moley moley…

Suddenly he handed me a scanty cotton wrap from the medical cupboard and demanded, “Undress and put this on.” Gee, and I didn’t get you anything!

As much as I enjoy having my entire body explored inch-by-inch with an LED spotlight and a magnifying glass, Dr. Derm made me feel like a flabby, poorly-waxed autopsy. Further, he infused his frightening frisk with accusatory questions, “Do you stay out of the SUN?” “Do you wear sun BLOCK?” “How often do you TAN?” I claimed that I only hit the bacteria-beds rarely. Such as when I prep for prestigious presentations to the heads of billion-bling corporations. Like…Earlier today. And yesterday. And, er, the day before… Oh shit I am so busted!

“You Are Willing To Risk Cancer Just To Look Good Giving Presentations?!” he snapped at me. Is this a trick question? I mean, I do thrive in a male-dominated industry, Chuckles. I’m just a couple of silicon-bags and a Brazilian short of seven figures!

As he graphically lectured me on the dangers of sun-drenched egoism, his nurse diagramed which unseen moles he planned to cut from my ass. That was just an appetizer; more de-molifying would follow.

Talk about fun! And yet, fear for my life wasn't the only reason I agreed to multiple stabbings that day. I bowed to The Beast of Beauty, too. Even as Dr. Derm and his softball-star nurse showed rabid disdain for my plastic priorities, they simultaneously suckered me with the wonders of Botox.

I didn’t miss the paradox. I boldly inquired, “You will scold me for soaking up a few rays, but it’s okay to inject my mug with botulism?” The doc’s simple retort was, “Botox is perfectly safe.” Translation: “You out-of-pocket this expense, conceited capitalist, and I get paid instantly. If it ever comes to light that this stuff melts marrow, you’ll sue the manufacturer and I’ll be in Barbados sweating in 1000 SPF long-sleeves.”

I hated the chair-side manner of virtually everyone in the building. They treated me like a 14-year-old who got caught smoking in the boys' room. But as I compared the flawless foreheads on the surrounding posters to my permanently stressed brow, I decided to give it a shot—literally. I agreed to seven poisonous injections that would bring my face back from the nursing home. After all, my stylist-friend is up to 18 injections, two lip treatments, microdermabrasion, and some laser hair removal—regularly. She still has a face; how bad can it be?

Almost a grand, that’s how bad it can be! Good lord, people, I invested $750 for three measly months of Asian-faced perfection—one of which was accented with stinging frontal headaches.

Let’s do some opportunity-cost shopping, shall we? A new Maytag front-loading washing machine. Two nights in Tahoe. Three pairs of Antonio Melani knee-highs. Half of a Macintosh. Christmas presents for twenty disadvantaged children. A Tom Everhart print. Some impressive programming on my creepy blog site.

All sidled for the sake of temporarily smooth skin. Der.

I won’t deny that I was better friends with the mirror that season. My eyebrows were arched only slightly, my face was grimace-free, and my ass displayed fewer dots. But I probably could have garnered equal results with a $40 haircut and a wider thong.

This week, Dr. Derm’s nurse is ringing me regularly to schedule my follow-up pokes. I have yet to return her calls—not because she has chronic PMS and kind of scares me, but because I’m not ready to make the life-altering choice to deny or embrace my homeliness. While I think it's smarter to choose smile- and stress-embedded wrinkles over the pain in my face and my wallet, don't hold that against me when I change my mind next spring.

I am delighted to report that none of my moles, cysts or other repulsive mutations revealed life-threatening cells. Nonetheless, I remain completely sheltered from the sun—both real and fake. Yes, Doctor Dread scared me straight! The downside is: my imperfections are no longer camouflaged by terralicious color. (An 80-year-old leatherfaced friend once advised me that you can cover anything with a tan, God love ‘er.)

In my future's desperate times, such as those involving prestigious presentations to the heads of billion-bling corporations, I’ll probably go the stinky temorary spray-tan route. Hell, maybe someday I'll even learn to accept my hideously pallid splendor and let my brilliant mind do the talking.

So let's make a toast to Me, shall we? A little bit older, a little bit wiser, and a little bit uglier.

Tink-tink!

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No responses worth repeating. Yet.
But I wait with bated breath.

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